


Smokes

by Vietta



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Don't smoke kids, Gen, nothing major just cigarettes, rated t for drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8026327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vietta/pseuds/Vietta
Summary: I started buying any brand I could get. Bought packs that got fished out of the water and robbed the dead of their half empties. Snagged single smokes where I could when people wised up and realized they'd make more off us poor saps by breaking the packs open. Grabbed bundles of handmade cigs made from tobacco rescued from mostly finished butts. Regretted every damn cigarette I stubbed out before I finished it. Burned my fingers trying to smoke through the filters.Never tried to quit though.





	Smokes

**Author's Note:**

> Don't confuse this for me telling anyone to smoke. It's bad for you. Screws up your dopamine receptors by busting the ligand cells and re-wiring them to be activated by nicotine instead. Clogs up your lungs and screws with your brain and rots your teeth and tightens your cardiovascular system up and makes you sound like you've been eating steel wool for a snack your whole life. 
> 
> I mean, I smoke like a little hypocrite over here, but I'm just sayin. Don't smoke. It's bad for you. No matter what excuses or justification anyone gives you. Don't go telling people who smoke that they're the devil or anything, don't be a judgemental little shit because you never know what's going on in someone's downtime, but don't do it. 
> 
> On a more positive and less soap-boxy note; I spent 90% of the time I was writing this fic listening to Losin' My Luck by Joel Faviere.

After Meteorfall happened, it got hard to find things. A lot of factories ran off mako power and when all the reactors blew, shit came to a standstill. When the WRO set up generators, made new use of old windmills, and made nature work for man by sticking water turbines in rivers, getting factories up and running wasn't exactly top priority. So stuff got scarce and we scrounged up what we could. Factory work is slowly making a comeback, but there are priorities. Necessity over luxury and all that.

Which makes finding a decent cigarette fucking impossible nowadays.

Currently, I'm swearing like sailor and trying to pick little strands of tobacco off my lap to stuff them back into the nearly empty wrapper they fell from. I hadn't even lit the damn thing yet, didn't have a single damned puff of sweet, soothing nicotine. If I thought I was stressed before, I'm really fucking stressed now.

When it first dawned on me that cigs were going to dry up, I bought every carton of my favorites I could get my hands on. Snagged a good amount too. I didn't cut back, not at first, but back then I thought rather whimsically that things would go back to normal quick.

Then Geostigma took hold, and then Kadaj showed up, and then those Deepground fuckers oozed out of the ground, and then cigarettes became the least of my worries for a long damn while.

After we mopped all that up, there was even less supply of everything. Sure, there was a helluva lot less competition for resources to go with that, but when the supply is damn near gone even the lightest demand is too goddamn much. I started buying any brand I could get. Bought packs that got fished out of the water and robbed the dead of their half empties. Snagged single smokes where I could when people wised up and realized they'd make more off us poor saps by breaking the packs open. Grabbed bundles of handmade cigs made from tobacco rescued from mostly finished butts. Regretted every damn cigarette I stubbed out before I finished it. Burned my fingers trying to smoke through the filters.

Never tried to quit though.

Healen Lodge is supposed to be a relaxing joint. Comfy rooms, pretty scenery, all that chill shit that is supposed to take a guy off the edge. It isn’t really helping, not when I’m here all on my lonesome. I don’t really do well solo. Not for long. I can handle missions that way, but that’s different. In my downtime I’m usually around people. Even if I don’t know ‘em, they make for good company. Twittering birds in the woods behind the lodge do not.

I give up on rescuing this cigarette and pull out another to light, careful to keep it angled up so it keeps it’s stuffing.

The paper is too thick and it burns all wrong, but on the whole it gets the job done. I miss my menthols with the little thing in the filter that let you choose if you wanted it to be menthol or not, I miss the feel of it bursting between my fingers before that first puff of sweetened smoke. This cigarette tastes wrong, sits in my throat wrong, and just generally displeases, but it helps scratch the nicotine itch. Eases the ache in my head where the cravings reign. It doesn’t satisfy me, but it keeps withdrawal at bay and that’s all a man can really ask for anymore.

I go through two more poorly packed cigarettes before I see Tseng’s car pull up in the drive. I watch as he gathers his things out of his car. Feel like a creepy sonofabitch when he stretches and adjusts his suit under my gaze. He knows I’m here because he invited me. None of us live here full time anymore, but since Rufus bought the damn place we can show up when we feel like it. Our rooms are pretty much as we left them, ready for us to use whenever. My thoughts on this place are contradictory and confusing and I try not to linger on them much, but I’ve been forced to for the past few hours. Proximity to some strange places in my past and all that.

I taught Rufus to play the spoons in the living room with finer silverware than I ever used growing up. Watched Elena do some damned beautiful needlepoint on the same porch I’m relaxing on now. The little planter of moss Tseng tended throughout our stay is still on the counter. Rude pulled an entire garden out of his ass in the yard, made me till and weed it with him all damned summer. Elena taught me how to bake a cake here and let me eat the leftover frosting straight out of the bowl. I smeared some on Tseng’s face when I got tipsy later and instead of smacking me when I offered to lick it off for him he wiped it off and offered it back. I briefly remember swallowing my own tongue for a minute while he laughed and then ruined my shirt with it.

I also watched Rufus fall apart here in this lodge. I watched him move from upright, to cane, to wheelchair. Saw the transition from a few neatly wrapped bandages to a full shroud. Watched as he decayed with dignity in the living room. Saw him ooze at Kadaj’s command while I struggled to breathe just an arm's reach away. I watched Elena stitch Rude’s arm shut on the kitchen table. I practically sold my soul over the phone to Valentine in an effort to get Tseng and Elena back, made horribly open ended deals with him to get back their bodies if nothing else. I picked Tseng and Elena’s bent and bloody ID cards off the floor and rinsed them clean in the bathroom sink. I sank onto Tseng’s perfectly made bed and spilled whiskey on the sheets that same night. Drank myself into a stupor and passed out there, clutching his ID and a broken rib.

But right now, in the present, it’s just me and Tseng and all those memories like dust on the shelves. It’s not worth bothering to clean up or even address, so we don’t. Instead, he slides the glass door open and leans on the frame with a smile. His eyes make quick work of me, pick up my mood based on whatever he sees there, and his smile gets a little tight at the edges. I lean back on the legs of my chair and brush ashes and tobacco off my lap. I don’t know what I look like to him, never really have seen whatever he sees, but I’m pretty sure I look as edgy as I feel. I try for nonchalant and hope I pull it off. “Sup, Tseng?”

A freshly polished boot slides the door shut as he steps out onto the porch with me. He has a briefcase with him and sets it on the table, getting my attention. “I got you something.” Of all the things I have learned to expect from a briefcase _presents_ aren’t exactly high on the list. Or even fucking on it for that matter. So it’s understandable that I lower my chair legs to the floor with hesitation when he starts unlatching it. He’s got it facing away from me so I can’t see inside it as he starts explaining away whatever he got, trying to soothe the obvious tension out of my posture with pretty words. “Rufus had me check on the progress of some investments he’s made recently. There’s quite a bit of promise in what he’s setting up. Plenty of potential for future cash flow. One of his projects may hold special interest for you.”

And with that, the smooth motherfucker plops a fresh, crisp, new carton of smokes right into my lap.

My reaction is explosive and loud and right in his damn ear. His smile reaches his eyes when I grab the carton with shaking hands, rip the box open and unwrap a fresh goddamned pack with eagerness and showy ceremony. I tip the cigarette, tap at its sides, and blabber in joy and endless gratitude when all the tobacco stays fucking put. It’s fresh and clean and by Gaia, it’s got the stupid little ball in the filter and I feel like pinching every one in the pack just for kicks.

He’s chuckling, damn near laughing at my giddy joy over a carton of fucking cigarettes, and when I offer him a smoke he takes it. I scoot my chair closer to his, still blabbering my thanks while we light up. I get a ‘thank Rufus technically they’re his’ for a response, but he seems pleased anyways. When I’m sidled up close, I lean on his shoulder, inhaling deep the sweet satisfying pleasure that is a good cigarette. Together, we breathe in poison and laugh it back out. I feel genuine relief from my cravings for the first time in over a year. Tension seeps from my body with every inhale, my head clears up and even as I stuff my lungs with smoke I feel like these are the deepest breaths I’ve taken in months. I take big coughing mouthfuls of it, let Tseng pat my back while I do, and puddle against him when I’m done.

Healen lodge gets another good memory added to the books, and even though the good doesn’t outweigh the bad, the books don’t necessarily need to balance out.


End file.
